No Consequence
by Laura Schiller
Summary: A "Dombey and Son" songfic collection. Rated T for what canonically happens to Florence and Edith.
1. Chapter 1

No Consequence

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Dombey and Son

Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate

**_1. It's Okay_**

_"It's okay,  
I can promise you it's all right.  
You ain't keeping me up all night  
no more … "  
_- Atomic Kitten, "It's Okay"

Mr. Toots had no idea how close Florence came to accepting him.

It would be so easy. Here he is, his sweaty satin-gloved hand clinging to hers, blushing so hard you could fry eggs on his face as he stammers out his adoration. She could make him _happy_ – when was the last time Paul Dombey Sr.'s rejected daughter made someone happy? She could leave that house, never have to watch the constant marital war between Papa and Edith, never suffer for her own inadequacy at making Papa love her …

_To do what, start a war of your own?_, whispers her conscience, in a voice suspiciously similar to Susan Nipper's. _Pity ain't love, Miss Floy. I may pity Diogenes when he's got the worms, but that don't make me want to curl up in his basket. _

Then she reproves the imaginary Susan forbeing so cruel, since Mr. Toots cannot help being what he is, and his big warm heart is really worth a dozen clever minds.

(And if she remembers a halo of curls, a uniform starched with ineffable optimism, and two warm hands sliding ragged shoes off her feet, it's of no consequence. None at all.)

"Oh, Mr. Toots, don't," she says, withdrawing her hand. "As a kindness and a favor to me … please don't."

"It's of no consequence," he replies, tipping his hat, which proves entirely inadequate to hide his tears. "Not the least consequence in the world."


	2. Chapter 2

**_2. Missing_**

_"Maybe someday you'll look up  
and, barely conscious, you'll say to no one:  
'Isn't something missing?'  
Isn't someone missing me?"_  
- Evanescence, "Missing"

It is only at night that Florence can think of her father.

In the daytime, she can avoid it. The odd contest of kindness between her and Captain Cuttle (he cooks, she cleans; he offers to buy her new clothes, she refuses) proves an excellent distraction; besides, she could _not_ burden anyone with her care without at least trying to earn her keep somehow. (If that is the Dombey pride coming out in her, so be it.)

But at night, when the wind howls against the round bulkhead of a window in her attic room, when she wakes up shivering because some nightmare made her struggle out of the blankets, she remembers.

The bruise he left on her chest is fading, but the bruise on her soul remains.

She thinks of it as a murder, the violent murder of the imaginary father she loved. But how can he be dead if he was never real?

The man who gave her life hates her – what does that say about them both? There must be something wrong here, terribly wrong, to inspire such hate. If the fault is hers, how can she live with herself, being so unnatural as to alienate her own father? But if the fault is his, how could she have been so blind as not to see it? Do tainted parents give birth to tainted children?

Did he ever strike her mother?

She remembers his last words. _Go after your harlot stepmother, why don't you? You have always been in league!_ If only she could. Just like her Mama, Mrs. Toodle, Paul, Walter and even Susan, Edith has left her all alone.

She can see him, clear as day, sitting with his newspaper in the big armchair by the fire. Reviewing his account books in the library. Pacing the carpets with his hands locked behind his back. Does he ever wonder where she is? Is he at all regretful, or simply glad to finally have her out of his way?

Or does he even realize she is missing?

She is hanging by a thread now, the generosity of her host all that keeps her from falling. If she does, will anybody catch her?


	3. Chapter 3

**_3._** **_Irreplaceable_**

_"You must not know about me …  
I could have another you in a minute.  
Matter of fact, he'll be here in a minute."  
_- Beyoncé, "Irreplaceable"

"Madam," Mr. Dombey told his wife once, boots and cravat creaking with indignation, "You are perhaps not aware of who and what I am."

As Edith piles everything he ever bought for her into a messy heap – crushing silk, flattening furs, rattling gold and diamonds – she laughs at how wrong he was.

He is nothng more than one of the many pompous, selfish, wealthy gentlemen who have been swarming around her, like so many useless drones in a hive, since she was thirteen. She knows the breed, from their stiff gray sideburns to their even stiffer boots (trimmed and polished, respectively, by the best-trained of valets). Her mother trained her all too well.

She could have had any of them for the asking – but she won't. Never again. Carker may _think_ she's chosen him as her next benefactor, but he couldn't be more wrong. How deliciously ironic, to turn Dombey's tool for her humiliation into her own ticket to freedom. Once she's lost him in Dijon, her escape will be complete.

She may have lost everything long ago – freedom, dignity, self-respect – but by God, she'll win it back if it's the last thing she does.

She drops her engagement ring with a clatter, and smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

**_4. Daughters_**

_"I know a girl,  
she puts the color inside of my world.  
But she's just like a maze  
where all of the walls are continually changed.  
And I've done all I can  
to stand on her steps with my heart in my hands.  
Now I'm starting to see -  
maybe it's got nothing to do with me._

_Fathers, be good to your daughters.  
Daughters will love like you do.  
Girls become lovers who turn into mothers -  
so, mothers, be good to your daughters too."_

- John Mayer, "Daughters"

Walter Gay loves his young wife more than anything in the world, but sometimes he fears he will never understand her.

One morning, he wakes up to find her side of the bunk already empty, and sees her standing over the cradle of their newborn son, her black hair wild as a thundercloud, crying so silently that not even the baby has woken up.

"Do you love him?" Florence asks abruptly, seeing that Walter is awake. "Truly?Or do you only pretend to care, for appearances' sake?"

He is so appalled by this idea, especially so early in the morning, that he cannot speak a word in his defense.

"I – I wouldn't blame you, you see," she continues, gesturing wildly, looking everywhere but into his face. "After all, the poor child is even more of a burden than I am. You needn't disguise your feelings if – if you cannot – if he's inherited my … "

She breaks down, smothering a sob with both hands, turning her back to both her husband and her son. That proves too much for him, and he throws off his blanket and crosses the cabin in three steps.

"Florence! Dearest Florence, listen to me!" He whirls her around to face him, places both hands on her shoulders, and meets her tear-filled black eyes with his fierce blue ones. "Look into my eyes and tell me: ever since we met all these years ago, have I lied to you even once?"

"No … "

"And do you trust me?"

"Of course!"

"Then trust me now. Once and for all, you are _not _a burden – and neither is little Paul. This child, _our_ child, has been a miracle to me from the moment you first handed him into my arms. I pray to God every day to be as worthy a father to him as my good Uncle Sol is to me."

He looked down at the sleeping baby, bright pink and slightly rumpled like a full-blown peony. He touches his son's soft cheek with one finger, as if little Paul were a china figurine and liable to break.

"Yes, Paul is like you. I am _glad_ for that. If I were ever to neglect him, let alone disown him, he would have every right to curse my name – and so would you."

Florence stumbled out of his hold and backed away against the wall, holding up her hand as if to ward him off.

"Don't say such things, my love," she whispered. "Please don't."

"Why not, if they are true? How can you commit to our future, Florence, if you are still trapped in the past? When will you understand that you are innocent – that your father wronged you cruelly without cause? When will you stop tearing yourself to pieces like this, and turn your anger on the manwho truly deserves it?"

Florence's hand flies to her chest, as if she had been hit there all over again. Her eyes, burning darker than ever in her tear-streaked face, seem to look right past him at the ghosts that have followed her for so long.

This time, when she begins to cry, they are not the quiet, ashamed tears she's been choking on all her life. She runs into her husband's arms, sinks her hands into his shirt - and _screams._

"Let it out, my darling," he murmurs, stroking her back. "Go on … let it all out."

Her emotions are a storm, and like any sailor, Walter knows the only thing to do is weather it. He waits for her to calm down, to stop shaking, to take out one of the handkerchiefs she is never without and cautiously, apologetically, clean herself up.

By the time the storm has passed, his ladylike Florence is a fright. Her eyes and nose are red, her hair is stuck to her forehead, and her throat is almost too worn out to speak. But her eyes shine like the night sky after rain, and she is almost smiling.

He pulls down the collar of her nightgown to kiss the spot where a palm-shaped bruise used to be. Understanding the gesture, she returns it by kissing a scar at the corner of his mouth, the only visible sign of the shipwreck that almost cost him his life.

By this time, little Paul has woken up and is loudly announcing his need to be fed. Florence wipes her eyes, brushes back her hair and picks him up – and she's a lady again, the calm and elegant presence she shows to the world, all her pain, shame and sorrow tucked away as neatly as her folded handkerchiefs. For the rest of the day, he knows, she will smile and charm everyone on board, let them fuss over the baby, and generally behave as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Walter wonders if he will ever get used to her transformations, or if perhaps the two Florences will one day reconcile.

But there's something different in the way she smiles today, a certain confidence in the way she carries both herself and little Paul. As if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders … as if perhaps, even though they've been at sea for over nine months, her journey has only just begun.


	5. Chapter 5

In My Daughter's Eyes

_In my daughter's eyes, I can see the future:  
a reflection of who I am and what will be.  
Though she'll grow and someday leave,  
maybe raise a family,  
when I'm gone I hope you see  
how happy she made me …  
for I'll be there  
in my daughter's eyes._

- Martina McBride, "In My Daughter's Eyes"

"Mama?" said Florence, in a whisper as hushed as a five-year-old could make it, as she crept into her mother's enormous, shadowy bedroom. From her four-poster bed with its dark velvet curtains and the tower of pillows at her back, Fanny Dombey could just make out the child's pale, anxious face.

"Susan said I wasn't to come in and worry you," Florence confided, her wide brown eyes flicking from side to side as if on the watch for her hot-tempered guardian. "But I missed you so. Am I worrying you?"

"Not a bit." Fanny held out her arms. "Come here, my darling."

Florence ran across the room, climbed onto the bed and snuggled in, exclaiming in surprise at the changes in her mother's figure. The vigilance of Dr. Pilkins, Dr. Parker Peps and Mr. Dombey during Fanny's confinement, combined with the latter's strict orders to Susan Nipper to keep Florence out of the way, had ensured that mother and daughter saw even less of each other than before.

"Why, Mama, you keep getting bigger!"

For the first time in weeks, Fanny laughed. "I suppose I am."

"But why? Are you ill?"

Fanny kissed the top of her daughter's head, as much to comfort herself as to calm her.

"Oh, no," she said lightly, trying not to feel dishonest. "Of course not. I am very well. Has no one explained to you what is happening?"

Florence's curls shook in the negative. "Only that you must not be worried, and something very im-port-ant is happening. No one tells me anything!" She wound up with a hint of a whine; only around her mother was she comfortable enough to make demands or argue like most children, a mixed blessing which said a great deal about the dynamics of this household.

"How would you like it, Floy, if I told you your little brother or sister was growing inside there?"

"Really?"

Florence backed away to the edge of the bed, her eyes wide, as if Fanny's rounded stomach contained a loaded pistol.

"Really and truly, darling."

"Inside of you?"

"Yes. Don't be afraid, Floy. Think of a seed in the warm earth, growing slowly until it opens its petals to the sky. Children are like that. I carried you this way, once."

Florence listened with one finger in her mouth, and the deep fascination of children and scientists, as Fanny did her best to frame an explanation appropriate to the little girl's age. She wondered if Florence would even remember this conversation, but as rare as their time together was, would be senseless to waste it.

"Will it happen to _me_?" Florence asked.

"Perhaps one day, but not until you are grown. Not until you are married, like – " _your Papa and I_, she was about to say, but the words choked her.

It was all too easy to picture her daughter growing up like herself, broken to heel like a horse. Married off to the first prestigious peer with whom Mr. Dombey wanted a connection, regadless of his character or her own choices. Pressured from all directions to bear sons, whether she wanted them or not. Fanny squeezed her eyes shut to force away the memories of Mr. Dombey's red, perspiring face, his heavy weight above her.

"What is 'married'?" asked Florence.

It was a good question, and deserved the best of answers. Mr. Dombey would have said that marriage was a contract: the provision of an heir in exchane for status and security. Louisa Chick would have called it a duty. Fanny considered long and deeply before she spoke.

"When a man and a woman are married, it means that they promise to live together, help and support each other for the rest of their lives. When you are old enough, darling, promise me you will find a husband who makes you happy."

She swallowed a knot of tears at the back of her throat, thinking of her first betrothed – the way his laughter carried down the streets like sunshine; the way he used to whirl her around like a top at his parents' dances; the hopeful crispness of his navy uniform the last day she had seen him. Losing that joy had left her so indifferent to her fate, she hadn't even protested at being bargained off to Mr. Dombey by her parents, a mistake she regretted every day.

"Does Papa make _you _happy, Mama?" asked Florence, reaching out to touch the tear sliding inadvertently down Fanny's face. The unchildlike skepticism of that gesture startled her, and for a moment, she was tempted to confess the truth; the bitter, inescapable truth she had kept locked up for so long. _No, Florence, I am not happy. Your father cares no more for me than for an expensive statue, your aunt holds me in contempt, and there is nobody to love me in this world apart from you._

But the child was five years old, and hearing this would only distress her all the more. Besides, if she told anyone else and word got back to Mr. Dombey … Fanny suppressed a shudder by holding Florence even closer.

"He gave me _you_, my little one," she said. "That makes me happy."

They were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a breathless, tousle-haired Susan, who shattered the moment as effectively as a bull in a china shop.

"Miss Floy, you naughty child! I've been looking for you everywhere! Beg your pardon, Mrs. Dombey, ma'am, but Master insisted you wasn't to be bothered. Miss Floy, get down from that bed right this minute, or there'll be no stories for you tonight!"

"But I want to stay with Mama!"

"Go on, dear," said Fanny, gently detaching Florence from her arms. "I will be all right. Be a good girl and go with Susan."

"_Now_, Miss Floy – or I'll tell your Pa."

Florence climbed down off the bed, abruptly silent. As Susan took her hand to lead her out of the room, she shot a brief, apologetic look back at her mistress. _Orders are orders,_ her black eyes seemed to say. _What can I do?_

Fanny envied the young maid right then. To have the day-to-day duties and joys of looking after Florence, to bathe and dress and speak with her, seemed a luxury. However, she knew beyond a doubt she had made the right choice in hiring her. Florence would need an outspoken champion in this house.

"Promise me, Florence," she repeated. "Someone to make you happy."

"I promise, Mama," were her daughter's last words.


End file.
